


Miracle Worker

by starsandgutters



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, M/M, Tumblr Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-22
Updated: 2013-10-22
Packaged: 2017-12-30 04:49:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1014290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starsandgutters/pseuds/starsandgutters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He can never explain this to the other angels -- they don’t get it; they don’t <i>care</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Miracle Worker

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this ficlet all in a rush, without really pausing to plan or think it through - just because I _needed_ to. I stumbled upon a conversation between Tumblr users hallosammy and deancastiell, which featured the following enthusiastic statement:
>
>>   
>  **DEAN WINCHESTER IS CASTIEL’S MIRACLE AND ALL THE ANGELS MAKE FUN OF CASTIEL BECAUSE HIS ‘MIRACLE’ IS JUST A HUMAN BUT CASTIEL DOESN’T CARE BECAUSE HE THINKS DEAN IS THE MOST BEAUTIFUL THING IN CREATION.**   
> 
> 
> And I was immediately taken in with the same enthusiasm, and just had to elaborate on that in my own way. Hopefully the result is actually good instead of an incoherent emotional ramble. 

 

It’s not unusual for this to happen. Angels are, after all, a huge, celestial, epically dysfunctional family. It’s not uncommon at all for them to tease each other, and Castiel probably gets more than his fair share of it.

His Dean-given moniker of “nerdy angel”, as it happens, is strikingly apt: his temperament constantly oscillates between the dutiful soldier, focused on his task to the point of not seeing much else (which gets him made fun of by angels like Balthazar and Gabriel, who never seem to stop laughing about how _you’re almost two billions years old now, Castiel, how do you not even get double entendres_ ) or too preoccupied with watching humanity, admiring their handiwork, their poetry, their creations-- their _beauty._ Which, in Heaven parlance, is much the same as a human being unhealthily invested in their circus mice.

The teasing there is all good-natured, however; it doesn’t have any impact on how much he’s valued and admired by his brothers and sisters. He’s still a damned amazing warrior, and has led his garrison to victory almost on every single battle, both as Anna’s second and as a commander himself.  People respect Castiel; they _like_ him.

The other thing, though, is different. It’s less ‘affectionate brotherly teasing’ and more ‘uncomfortable pointing and staring’. Not really at _him_ , but at the blank spot on his resumé.

Angels are supposed to create things, see. But Castiel, mostly, hasn’t.  He’s _healed_ and _fixed_ and _improved_ , yes, but not created. People speculate on why this is, and their theories range from ‘he’s too uptight to be creative’ to ‘he’s humble and righteous, and he thinks it would be arrogant’.

And so Hael made the Grand Canyon; Anna grew the redwood forests in the north, the giant sequoias still standing to this day. Balthazar, ever the egotist, created what came to be known as the Angel Falls, and Uriel molded Mount Vesuvius.  And they all waited, and wondered, and eventually asked, _But why don’t you_ make _anything, Castiel? Something to show at the next family meeting._ And they cajoled and needled, _it doesn’t have to be anything big; just a minor miracle, Castiel, maybe a hill or a river._

And Castiel sighed and looked at them with that patiently aggravated expression of his, and pointed out he’d already made his miracle. And his family groaned and rolled their eyes and sighed back _oh, not Dean Winchester again._

Besides, he didn’t really count, the angels supplied. If anyone was to praise for humans, it was their Father. Castiel didn’t _make_ the Winchester, he _remade_ him, which honestly, was kind of like cheating. Castiel always meets the accusation with a set jaw and a stubborn look. Because only he knows how much it was _not_.

They don’t understand what it took to pull that maimed, charred soul from the Pit. They don’t understand what it meant to lay his hand on it and suddenly be blinded by the _light_ \- God, the sheer _brilliance_ of it! - that still shone burningly beneath the soot and the gore and the despair. They don’t know Dean’s radiance. They don’t understand how carefully he had to handle that wounded soul, how fiercely it clung to him in a mute litany of _letmebesavedpleaseletmebesavedIwantoutIwantoutIwant **out** , _even as it considered itself unworthy of saving. They can’t comprehend what it was like to put Dean’s atoms back together, his rotting body not only made whole, but completely _rebuilt,_ molecule by careful molecule. They can’t appreciate the effort it took to get it _right_ \-- the shades in his hair, the number of his freckles, the curve of his legs, the dimples on his face; and how humbling it was to watch and see the soul -- now free from the grime of hell, its pulsing light almost unbearable to look upon -- restore what was missing to Dean’s body: the courage, the stubbornness, the fears; the scars of old pain, the memories of old laughter, the _love._

When Castiel tries to explain all this, the angels just look uncomfortable, and argue that his miracle still barely counts. Their miracles are admired by millions. Their miracles will last through the ages, while Castiel’s still has only maybe a few decades to live, and it will get old and faulty, and it already leaks and breaks and smells and malfunctions.

Castiel shrugs and ignores them, taking pity on their complete failure to understand. They can keep their miracles and high horses, it doesn’t really matter: he knows better.

 _Their_ miracles don’t fight and breathe and hope.

 _Their_ miracles don’t sing along to bad rock songs, or uncork beer bottles with a ring, or love their brothers fiercely enough to die for them, over and over.

 _Their_ miracles will never save the world. But _his_ has, more than once, giving all he had, selflessly; and still the angels wonder why Castiel would side with him, be by his side.

 _His_ miracle is alive and breathtaking. He’s not a canyon or a mountain or a waterfall, but he’s seen all of those things; he’s helped _save_ those things. _His_ miracle has a wide grin and rough hands and, frankly, a too-big heart (but it was already that way, and Castiel remade it to the exact detail). And last, but most important, _his_ miracle feels and loves and forgives, and he’s forgiven and saved Castiel more times than he can count. _His_ miracle is utterly, completely _beautiful._

So maybe Dean Winchester is only a temporary miracle; maybe nobody knows about him. But Castiel knows, and it’s enough.  

He can never explain this to the other angels -- they don’t get it; they don’t _care._ And Dean is, after all, Castiel's  _own_  miracle: the fading scar on the hunter's shoulder attests to it. No, Castiel has no explanations to make. So instead he shrugs and replies with a defiant smirk: “I made a faithless man pray. If that’s not a miracle, I don’t know what is.”

“Smarmy little shit,” replies Balthazar, and Castiel just smiles.


End file.
